Sienna POV

Two hours later, Rocco finally yanked the freezer door open.

He didn't look me in the eye.

"Boss says get dressed. We're going to the Gala."

My lips were cracked and blue.

My fingers were numb claws, so stiff I could barely button the designer dress Dante had laid out on the bed.

It was white.

Pure, innocent white.

It felt like a cruel joke.

The charity gala was held in a ballroom that reeked of old money and corruption—a spectacle that cost more than my father's entire lifetime of earnings.

Light refracted off massive crystal chandeliers, dancing over champagne towers.

Everywhere I looked, there were men who killed for a living wearing tuxedos that cost five grand.

Dante clamped his hand onto my waist as we entered.

His touch was warm, possessive.

"Smile," he whispered against my ear, his breath hot against my frozen skin. "You look pale."

I wanted to vomit.

Valeria was there, of course.

She was draped in blood-red silk.

She stood by her father, a Capo who controlled the Brooklyn docks, looking like royalty.

The auction began an hour later.

It was a "Charity Date Auction."

Rich men bidding on dances with the eligible women of the Family.

It was all for show. Money laundering with a smile.

When Valeria took the stage, the room went dead quiet.

She beamed, blowing a kiss to the crowd.

"Starting bid at five thousand," the auctioneer called out.

"Ten thousand," a voice yelled.

"Twenty," said another.

Dante stepped forward, detaching himself from my side.

He raised his hand.

"One million."

The room gasped.

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Valeria's smile widened into a victorious smirk. She looked directly at me.

Dante didn't look at her. He looked at the crowd, challenging anyone to defy him.

He was marking his territory.

And I was just the furniture.

Suddenly, I felt a vibration in my clutch.

Then another.

Around the room, phones started lighting up like fireflies.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, growing louder like an approaching tide.

People were looking at their screens, then looking at me.

Some were laughing.

I saw a woman near me whisper to her husband, covering her mouth but not her eyes. Her eyes were mocking.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my own phone.

I had a notification. A mass text sent to everyone on the guest list.

The Don's Catch of the Day.

I opened the attachment.

It was a photo of me from five years ago.

I was wearing rubber overalls, covered in fish guts, holding a scaling knife. My hair was matted with blood and slime. I looked feral. Poor. Dirty.

Beneath it was a caption: You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can't take the smell out of the girl.

I dropped the phone.

The screen cracked on the marble floor.

I looked up.

Dante was walking Valeria off the stage.

He had his hand on the small of her back.

He hadn't seen the phones yet.

Or maybe he had.

And maybe he didn't care.

I stood there in my white dress, surrounded by diamonds and silk, and I had never felt filthier in my life.

Sienna POV

I cornered him in the narrow hallway near the restrooms, where the orchestral music from the ballroom was muffled to a dull, rhythmic thrum.

Desperation clawing at my throat, I slammed my hand against his chest to stop him.

Dante looked down at me, his expression tightening with annoyance.

"What is it now, Sienna?"

I held up my cracked phone, my hand trembling as I showed him the photo.

Then, I let my hands speak for me. I signed aggressively, my movements sharp and jagged.

She did this. Valeria sent this.

Dante glanced at the photo for barely a second.

He didn't look angry. He looked utterly indifferent.

"It's a picture of you working, Sienna. It's the truth. Why are you ashamed of where you come from?"

My mouth opened in a silent scream of frustration. The sound died in my throat, choking me.

It's humiliation! I signed, my fingers flying. She is mocking me to the entire Family!

Dante caught my hands again, stilling my voice.

"Valeria is the daughter of a Made Man. She has class. She wouldn't stoop to sending petty texts. This was probably one of your old friends from the docks looking for a shakedown."

He released me, dusting off his suit jacket as if my touch had soiled it.

"Fix your face. It's your birthday dinner in ten minutes. Stop acting like a victim."

He walked away.

He defended her.

He would always defend her.

The dinner was held in a private dining room off the main hall, a space reserved for the elite.

The table was long, laden with crystal and silver, and filled with the inner circle.

Valeria sat across from me, perfectly poised.

As the waiters brought out the antipasto, the wife of a soldier next to me leaned in.

She sniffed the air theatrically, wrinkling her nose.

"Do you smell that?" she asked the table, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry. "Smells like... low tide."

The table erupted in polite, cruel laughter.

Valeria covered her smile with a linen napkin, her eyes dancing with malice.

I stared at my plate.

I gripped my fork so hard the metal dug into my skin, anchoring me to reality.

Suddenly, the large screen on the wall—meant for a slideshow of my life—flickered.

Static hissed through the speakers.

But it wasn't a picture of me that materialized.

It was a picture of Valeria.

She was naked. Tied to a bedpost.

And she wasn't alone.

She was with a man who was definitely not Dante. It was a rival soldier.

The room exploded.

Chairs scraped violently against the floor as men jumped to their feet.

Valeria shrieked, shattering the glass-fragile atmosphere.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!"

She looked at Dante, her eyes wide with panic.

Then, finding her scapegoat, she pointed a trembling finger at me.

"She did this!" Valeria screamed. "She hacked the system! She's trying to frame me!"

Dante stood up.

His face was a mask of thunder.

He looked at the screen, then at Valeria, and finally, he turned his cold gaze upon me.

He didn't see the truth.

He didn't see that I lacked the skills, the resources, or the access to do this.

He only saw his mistress humiliated.

And his wife sitting there, stone-faced.

"Sienna," he said.

It was not a question. It was a warning.

A sentence.

He believed her.

Again.

Sienna POV

Valeria didn’t just cry.

She crumbled.

She snatched a steak knife from the table, pressing the serrated edge against her wrist with trembling hands.

"I can’t live with this shame!" she wailed, her tear-filled eyes locking onto Dante. "She ruined me! Everyone has seen it!"

It was a performance.

I knew it.

Even Gia, who was pouring wine in the corner as part of her cover, knew it.

But Dante?

Dante saw a damsel in distress.

He slapped the knife from Valeria’s grip and crushed her against his chest, shielding her from the world.

Then, he turned his gaze on me.

It was a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You wanted to make a scene?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "You wanted to bring the gutter into my house?"

He signaled to Rocco.

"Bring the crates."

My blood ran cold.

Rocco hesitated, glancing nervously at the guests. "Boss, this is a formal dinne—"

"BRING THEM!" Dante roared, the sound vibrating through the crystal glasses.

Two soldiers scrambled out, returning moments later lugging heavy wooden crates from the kitchen.

The stench hit the room instantly.

Rotting fish guts. A thick, cloying wave of waste from the day’s catch, meant for the disposal unit.

Dante pointed a shaking finger at me.

"You act like trash, you get treated like trash."

He grabbed the first crate.

He didn’t hesitate.

He upended it over my head.

Slime, scales, and cold blood cascaded down my hair. It ruined the pristine white dress, soaking into my skin, chilling me to the bone.

The smell was vomit-inducing.

The room went deathly silent.

Even the cruelest of the wives looked away, unable to stomach the sight.

Dante stood over me, his chest heaving.

"You belong in the gutter, Sienna. Don’t ever forget that."

I stood there.

Dripping.

Slowly, deliberately, I wiped a fish scale from my eyelid.

I looked at him.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t tremble.

Something inside me—the last fragile piece of the girl who hoped he might still love her—finally snapped.

It broke clean off.

I looked at Valeria, who was smirking into Dante’s shirt.

I looked at Dante, the King who was nothing more than a tyrant in a bespoke suit.

I reached into my pocket.

My fingers brushed against the cold glass of the vial.

Okay, I thought.

You want a tragedy?

I’ll give you a tragedy.

I turned and walked out of the room, leaving a glistening trail of slime on the expensive Persian rug.

I wasn’t walking away in shame.

I was walking toward my grave.

And he was coming with me.